


Solenoid

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Double Penetration, Masturbation, Other, Recuperacoon Sex, Xenobiology, electrostim, psionic play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A solenoid is a coiled wire with a shaft of metal inside. When electricity is passed through the apparatus, the shaft electromagnetically moves within the armature, converting electricity into mechanical energy.</p><p>For the kinkmeme: psionic DP and electrostim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solenoid

**Author's Note:**

> OP wanted it to be about curiosity and then straightforward self-enjoyment, which sounded like a nice prompt. Rather than "he's angsting because someone will never love him" or "he really wants someone else but will settle for this," it's like "he wonders if this will be awesome and finds out it is!"

Sollux is working on a 2D platformer, his fingers clattering undistracted over the keys, when the voices begin to rumble and swell in the back of his mind. There is, he's certain, a special area of his brain designed to save these moments until his rare productive days and then spring them on him just to ruin the work; _the self-defeating cortex_ , he thinks with vicious wryness, _located next to the fucking-shit-up lobe, right above the deep-seated insecurity neurons_. On a logical level he knows that his moods and voices have no pattern – even if they did, there could never be a good time for them to show up - but after a lifetime of dealing with noise and instability, the bitterness is second nature to him and he has no interest in letting it go.

He persists in working for a while despite the increasing din, eyes scanning over the work until one shrill, dying voice pierces through the haze of frenetic activity and he pauses to sit back in his chair and stretch. With some pride he notes the amount of work finished during his fugue. When he looks again after a break the mistakes will worm out, dozens of small problems to fix and lines to rewrite, but the long period of staring has rendered it all so smooth and familiar that for just a moment he lets himself relish the sight of it compiling. Cracking his fingers, he takes a second to weigh his options: finish implementing the collision detection, eat something for the first time in two days, take a minute to chat with Aradia about the thousand voices slowly building to a crescendo in his skull, go over the work yet again, or...

"Fuck it," he mumbles with a sigh. Lightning snaps between his horns as he closes his eyes, willing himself deaf to the screams and riding out the coming thrill of anxiety with practiced ease. Light swirls around his body, a glowing aura crackling and popping as he lifts himself and floats to the recuperacoon, shedding articles of clothing as he goes. The stifling air of the room is no better than the clammy dampness of the fabric. He grimaces a little as he stops over the recuperacoon, considering how warm the slime beneath him will be, but as a piercing shriek lances through his temples he descends into the blue pool with a sigh. The noise is too loud to leave any choice.

Cooler than he expects, the sopor encloses Sollux's bare legs with merciful ease and dampens the voices as he sinks into it, settling up to his shoulders in the blue fluid. He gazes through his shades at the bees as they circle and swarm over their beehouse, his body sedated just enough to dampen the screams resonating through his skull. Not enough, as it turns out, to take away the tension that holds him taut as a bowstring, that twangs the threads of anxiety woven through his abdomen, not quite enough to stop the endless cycling of his thoughts, but enough to blunt the sharp edges and make it tolerable. He slows his motions as he leans back against the recuperacoon wall, shifting restlessly in the sopor, as every other option for passing the time suddenly looks better than attempting to sleep.

"Make yourself tired," he murmurs, trailing thin fingertips down his belly and closing his eyes. Lightning quivers and knots above his head as thin tendrils of psionic force wind around his hands, buzzing between his fingers as he strokes the underside of his bulge and carefully palms it. The electric stimulation is a new trick, the concentration it requires too much for his racing mind but just right for sopor-slowness, and before long the thick tendril curls upward against his fingers in response. It thrusts reflexively through his slick hand as he grips it, the humming electricity vibrating along its length as he strokes and lets out a held breath with a faint, harsh sigh.

The trick is new, but not novel; constant time alone makes everything dull, and as Sollux flips idly through his usual series of fantasies he feels more restless than anything. He stares at the bees without seeing them, thinks briefly about collision detection - defining boundaries, separating - and runs his thumb over the flicking tip of the bulge, shivering at the tingle of power over his sensitive flesh. It wriggles in earnest, fully extended and stimulated enough to curve back into his waiting nook, but the slickness and vibration of his fingers offer more than the narrow, too-familiar channel of his body. Lazily sliding further into the sopor, he slips his other hand past the bulge and curves glowing fingers up to rub the receptive entrance of his nook, his eyes half-open and gazing at the ceiling.

For all Karkat's insulting speculations about how he spends his time alone, Sollux's frame of mind is almost always unsuited for experimentation. It functions in fits and starts, in turns racing and demotivated, shut down by migraines and prone to distraction. When it works and his body reacts as he wants, things usually end quickly - more than anything he wants to go to sleep, to get back to work, to get rid of distracting needs, and practicing the same tricks does nothing to slow his restlessness.

This time, though, with one hand curled around his thrusting bulge and his nook pulsing hungrily between his legs, Sollux realizes that for once the humming energy and sensations have driven out the screams. The only sound is the soft buzzing of the bees.

With a thoughtful hum he slows down to enjoy the silence, moving his other hand from his nook to the base of his bulge. Fluid builds in the swelling knot of genetic material beneath his palm as he continues toying with the flexible shaft, squeezing and stroking to the tip in gentle motions that crackle and buzz with energy. Fine threads of psionic electricity move beneath the skin, tightening and relaxing the muscles of the twitching bulge, vibrating against the fine membrane of the globes and the fluid building inside them, heightening the pleasure until he finally squirms and gasps at the stimulation.

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes shimmering with feverish light as he grips the bulge with both glowing hands and squeezes as it thrusts, biting his lip at the slick pressure as the knot swells heavy and tight, already primed and ready but unable to release without internal stimulation. His nook throbs in frustration and the need for something inside itself, but at the same time his bulge wriggles and pushes eagerly into the tunnel of his fingers and he hesitates at the idea of letting go, hips moving in an uncertain rhythm. Even though using psionics internally is a trick he's rarely attempted, the idea sends a bright thrill through his belly and his mind cycles at once in feverish intent, blue light dangerously crackling between his thighs and pushing them eagerly apart.

Sollux whines involuntarily as its wavering force floods his body, mapping the narrow channel it explores. Gritting his teeth, he concentrates on giving substance to the power - vague at first, quivering waves along his receptors that leave his legs involuntarily trembling - and then separating the walls of his nook once mapped, pulling himself open to simulate the feeling of something substantial inside him, moaning softly as his body strains to close itself around the intrusive force. It grows easily to the size of his own bulge and, as his eyes flicker uncertainly, larger. "Fuck," he whines, closing his eyes and rocking himself to simulate thrusts, both hands still closed around his bulge as it stiffens into a nervous arc.

His inexperience prevents the shaft of light from imitating the writhing motion of a bulge against his receptors, but the faint electric pulse forces contractions from his muscles, tightening and loosening his body uncontrollably around the buzzing pressure spreading his nook. Even without the wriggling motion, the rocking and vibration are a new experience and waves of heat pulse between his trembling thighs, the quick, regular spasms of his muscles almost identical to the feeling of a bulge shoving into him. Sollux experiments with pressure on his hips to simulate someone grasping him, lifting him up for better access as he squirms and fucking him harder, rocking his body into the recuperacoon wall as he bucks and pants with exertion.

In the silence concentration is easy as he winds psionic tendrils tight around his thighs, lifting and spreading to splay them out in the sopor. Both larger horns ram the wall with each increasingly forceful thrust, shocks of impact and arousal rushing down his spine to build in the knot of tension growing low in his abdomen as he runs an experimental buzz of electricity through all four horns and cries out, trembling in the sopor. His mind races in slightly drugged arousal as he tilts his head forward and stares down at himself, glowing fingers wrapped around his bulge and light radiating blue between his legs, pressing further in. The feeling of it stretching him further is almost too much and still not enough, frustrating, too close to overwhelming when what he wants to feel is overwhelmed.

"Okay," he breathes, "okay, yeah," thoughts cycling impulsively as he imagines red light to match the blue. Nothing prevents the frictionless energy from filling his waste chute, from positioning, mapping, and altering the boundaries of his thin body. Each activity requires a little concentration that adds up to a lot and leaves no room for fantasy, for anything but a constant feedback loop as he pushes and stretches, and as he pulls himself open all his receptors hum in a rush that leaves him dizzy and uncertain how long he can last.

The feeling is almost uncomfortable as it grows – two thick, buzzing shafts of light separated only by the thin wall of flesh between them, his waste chute unaccustomed to intrusion and spasming much more tightly around the force that opens it - but the longer he rocks and squirms the shallower his breath grows, the more his bulge softens and slides again against his fingers, the more everything throbs hot and slick in time with his quickened heartbeats. Each pulse is echoed in the tight ring of muscle he stretches wider and the fullness of his tightening globes; trickles of genetic material escape, running down his coiling bulge as its thrusts quicken and dripping into the sopor on his stomach. "Okay, yeah," he breathes, shaking as he further lifts his slim hips in psionic hands and pins himself in place, "oh fuck, _fuck_ -"

The voices are a distant memory as he loses himself in the feeling and the focus needed to maintain it, eyes shimmering and fizzing multicolored sparks as lightning crackles and twines between his horns, mouth and sinuses overwhelmed with ozone as his globes tighten convulsively and he lets out a trilling whine. His concentration wavers at climax, everything buzzing and pushing in fits and starts as his bulge gives a last, eager shove and stiffens in his hands, genetic material pouring into the slime, the tense knot of his globes slowly flattening back into his bulge with each rough thrust of light into his body. Spasmodically he tightens around both vibrating shafts, his breath rasping in and out as he empties the entire load into the slime and slumps back, boneless and lax and semi-conscious as his psionics flicker out.

He lets out a long, quavering sigh as the force of it leaves his mind blank, fuzzy, only dimly aware that bees are circling the recuperacoon in a concerned swarm as he sinks into the sopor and listens to the filter hum to life. His limbs move loosely in their sockets and his lower back aches, everything below his waist dully throbbing as his eyes blink a quick reassurance in beenary at the drones. The computer beeps a loud message notification and he balefully glares over the rim of the recuperacoon at it. Undeterred, it beeps several more times and, after a lengthy pause during which he glares at it in satisfaction and begins to doze, once more. "Oh, fuck you," he groans, curling up and exhaustedly closing his eyes again, cradled in the slime and the noise and the soothing hum of the bees.


End file.
